


The Right Age

by thebermuda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Baby!RIchard, M/M, Pedophilia, Therefore, Underage - Freeform, because Richard is underage, nothing sexual happens but Severin is a molester, pervert!Severin, this is all nonconsent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-02-04 12:27:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1779094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebermuda/pseuds/thebermuda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Severin smiled. “I’ve always had a sweet tooth for boys. Have you had your first kiss yet, Richie?” </p><p>“No,” Richie said, feeling silly. </p><p> “Aw, that’s okay. Nothing to be embarrassed over.” Severin tickled his cheek. “We all bloom at our own times. But I think twelve is a good age for a kiss, don’t you?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Right Age

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this months ago but really hesitated posting it. I want to make something clear: This is a work of fiction. Heck - it's fanfiction, which is like double-fiction. This does **not** remotely depict child molesters in an accurate way. Make no mistake: An adult who touches a minor does not care about that minor's well-being.
> 
> But this is fanfiction world, where Severin and Richard can love and respect each other in any world, at any age.

“YaOW!” Richie hopped up and down on one foot, tears stinging his eyes. His knee throbbed. 

Carl Powers, who’d been the one to kick the ball at him in the first place, ran by him to retrieve it, but the others kept their distance. He was left alone on the field.

He saw a blurred Mr. Simmons through his tears, walking up to him. He wanted absurdly for Mr. Simmons to hug him, lean down and kiss the boo-boo better. He couldn’t imagine how Powers would mock him for _that_ if he knew. 

Mr. Simmons didn’t touch him. He surveyed Rich for a quick second before dismissing the injury, saying, “To the bench, Brook, if you’re not going to play.” 

Richie snuffled and limped his way to the bench. It was on the edge of the woodland, bordered by a cluster of oaks. The boys were running in the opposite direction, Powers on offense, kicking the ball to glory. 

Richie rubbed his eyes and reached into his trouser shorts pocket. He pulled out a pocketsize paperback. The good part of gym class hurting was that, when it hurt too bad, he got to be alone and read. 

He had just thumbed to the right page when a voice sounded beside him: “How now, Horatio! You tremble and look pale: Is not this something more than fantasy?” 

Richie gasped so hard he dropped the book. It would have fallen in the mud if a quick hand hadn’t darted forward, catching it by the spine. 

The book was pushed back into Richie’s hands. Richie first registered the return of the book, then the tanned, masculine hand that touched it, following up to a sleeved arm, broad shoulders, neck, and finally, as his mind scrambled to construct these fragmented images into a complete person, a grin cocksure and crooked. 

A man. 

Richie was looking at a man. 

“You’d rather read Shakespeare than play ball?” the man asked. His voice was deep. 

Was he a teacher? Of course he must be, no one else could get on school grounds. But he didn’t look like a teacher and, besides, Richie had never seen him before. Better not to ask, though – in case he _was_ a teacher, which of course he was, and Richie ended up looking rude. 

Had he just asked a question? Richie glanced down at the book, which was easier than meeting the man’s gaze. 

Ah, yes, Shakespeare. 

“Y-yeah,” Richie stuttered. He corrected himself: “Yes.” No stuttering, no yeahs, no uh-huhs or maybes or I-don’t-knows. This was the finest private school in Dublin county, and Richie was lucky to have the scholarship to go here. 

Never mind that he hated it. 

“Yeah, me too,” the man said. ‘Yeah,’ he’d said, so he definitely wasn’t a teacher. Richie looked at his face. 

Oh, bad idea. His heart fluttered. 

The man was looking down at him. Richie only caught a glimpse before looking away, but his eyes were blue, a clear, shining, intent blue. Intent upon Richie. 

“Who are you?” Richie blurted. As if he expected the man to lie, he said, suspiciously, “You’re not a teacher.” 

“No, I’m not.” The man grinned. “Anthony Simmons over there is my friend.” He gestured towards the gym teacher. “He doesn’t mind if I hang around.” 

“You’re English,” Richie said, getting a taste of the man’s accent. 

“That’s right,” he said. 

“Why’re you in Dublin?” Richie asked. Why was he sitting next to him? 

The man breathed out a light chuckle. He reached forward, finger brushing Richie’s cheek. 

Richie looked back at his gym class. They were still playing on the other side of the field; no one seemed to take notice. 

“You don’t want to be here,” the man said. “Do you want to take a walk?” When Richie’s eyes widened, he assured, “Just beyond the trees a bit.” 

“We’re not allowed past the trees,” Richie protested. 

The man’s smile never fully faded, but it broadened now. He said, “You’re allowed if you’re with me.” 

Richie looked nervously back at his class. 

“Mr. Simmons knows you?” he asked timidly. 

“From our old army days. He’s a decent bloke,” said the man. 

Mr. Simmons had been in the army, Richie knew. And the man had known the teacher’s name. It seemed he was telling the truth. 

Richie had one last objection: “My knee hurts.” 

“Want me to kiss it better?” the man asked. Richie could tell he was teasing. The glimmer in his eyes made it seem like everything he said was teasing. “Come on.” He put out his hand. “I’ll help you. If I need to, I’ll carry you.” 

He gave Richie a wink. Richie looked down at his big, wide hand. His knee really was still throbbing dully. 

Richie took the hand and used it to pull himself up. He slid his book back into his pocket, and the man led him into the woods. 

* * * * 

The man’s nonchalance put Richie at ease. He whistled to himself, a tune Richie didn’t recognize, and although he sometimes walked ahead he never went too far, always turning back to make sure Richie could keep up. He guided Richie away from thorns, holding low-hanging branches up so that Richie didn’t have to duck beneath them. 

“Do you know where we’re going, sir?” Richie asked, politely. 

The man laughed. “Look at you. Are you ready for the army, kid?” 

Richie stuttered. The man looked back at him, the laughter still in his eyes. He scanned Richie up and down. 

“You’re not the army type,” he said. These were the first words that sounded like they contained even a hint of sincerity. 

“Because I’m only twelve,” Richie objected. 

“You’re not and you won’t be. I can tell,” said the man, and Richie believed him. He seemed to know what he was talking about. “And my name is Severin Moran. You can call me Rin, if Severin’s too hard for you.” 

“My name is Richie,” Richie said. “You can call me whatever you like.” 

Severin stopped walking, holding up a branch for Richie to pass through. He smirked at Richie, and Richie had the distinct feeling that the man was thinking about something Richie wouldn’t understand. 

“I might just take you up on that,” Severin said. 

Richie was going to ask what he meant, but then he passed Severin and saw a distracting tableau. 

A clear, running brook, maybe a quarter of a mile behind his school. The trees were more thinly spread here, so that the warmth peaked through. On the surface of the water, lazing about, was a turtle, its shell speckled with sunlight. 

Richie looked up at Severin. He emanated a remarkable amount of heat, hot and solid beside him. He was so much taller than Richie that Richie had to crane his neck, when he was this close to him, to look him in the eyes. 

Severin smiled. “You like it?” 

“Uh-huh,” Richie said. “It’s pretty.” 

“I thought so, too,” said he. “How about we sit down?” 

Richie didn’t want to seem like a baby, but he was scared that if he sat on the leaf-littered ground, he’d have lots of scary bugs crawl up his trouser legs. Severin took off his jacket, though, and laid it on the ground. After asking for permission, Richie sat on it. 

Severin sat next to him, legs stretched out. They had to sit with their thighs touching for them to both be on the jacket. 

“You’re close to your school,” Severin said. 

“Yeah,” Richie said. Then he remembered, and corrected, “Yes, Mr. Moran.” 

Severin chuckled. “Do you think you’d be able to get back on your own?” 

Richie’s eyes widened. 

“I won’t leave you here,” Severin said quickly. Richie relaxed. “But if you wanted to get back on your own, you’d just have to turn there,” Severin pointed, “and make a right when you reach the big oak covered in moss. Then follow the sounds of the kids on the soccer field until you’re back.” 

“But you won’t leave me,” Richie said cautiously, scared Severin might have been lying. The brook was pretty with him around, but Richie knew it’d be scary if he were all alone. 

“Of course not,” Severin said, sounding serious for the first time. 

“Then why’d I need to get back on my own?” Richie asked. 

“In case you want to leave without me. Every boy before you became too scared and ran off. I wouldn’t want to see you get lost – or stay only because you’re afraid of going off on your own,” Severin said. 

What did he mean, ‘every boy’? And why would they get scared? Richie had a sudden vision of a monster in the woods, a big, clawed dragon disguised as a beautiful prince – no, a mighty king - who led boys deep into his dragon lair before eating them up. Richie shuddered, drawing away from Severin. 

But, if he was a dragon, why would he tell Richie how to escape? 

“Why do the other boys want to leave?” Richie asked. 

“Because little boys are delicate,” Severin said. “They don’t like to think they are, but they are. Do you feel delicate, Richie?” 

“Yes,” Richie blurted. 

This apparently wasn’t what Severin expected to hear, and he burst out laughing. 

“Look at you,” Severin said, and he was looking. Intensely. So much taller than Richie, but he bent down to better see Richie’s face. “You’re very cute.” 

Richie’s cheeks got hot. 

“Are there any girls who you think are cute, Richie?” Severin asked, leaning closer. 

Richie picked at a thread on his sleeve, eyes cast down to avoid Severin’s gaze. 

“Uh-uh,” Richie said. 

“Any boys?” Severin asked, tone light. 

Richie’s fingers stilled. He grumbled, “Carl Powers kicked that stupid ball. Hurt my knee.” 

“How terrible of him,” Severin teased. “I do think I said I’d kiss it better. Would you like me to?” 

Richie looked up, unable to tell if Severin meant it. When he saw Severin’s face – cheekbones high, jawline severe and masculine – he was left momentarily speechless. 

“You’ve earned it,” Severin prompted, voice a whisper, “after braving that long walk.” 

Richie opened his mouth. It took a few tries before any sounds would form. 

“Y-yes, please…”

He swallowed, heart beating in his ears, as Severin leaned forward and planted his lips, very softly, on the trousers of Richie’s knee. 

As Richie watched Severin’s lips actually touch his clothes, his heart lurched into his throat. It felt like he was soaring. Like his tummy was doing somersaults. There was an ache between his legs, which he’d experienced only a couple of times before. 

Richie fell on his back. 

“Are you alright?” Severin asked. 

Riche looked at the sky, blinking. 

“I can’t breathe,” he declared. His heart was pounding too hard. Was he having a heart attack? 

Severin chuckled. “I can’t believe my luck in finding you. My own little woodland fawn.” 

“I have asthma,” he said. “I think I need to get my inhaler from the nurse.” 

The chuckling stopped. “Are you being serious, Richard? I’ll go run and tell Simmons.” 

“No!” Richie exclaimed, bolting up. He pleaded, “Don’t leave. Please.” 

Severin visibly relaxed. He said, “You’ve got leaves in your hair now.” He reached out and picked a few out. 

Richie’s breath hitched. 

“Come on, keep breathing,” Severin coaxed. Richie took a deep breath. “That’s a good boy.” 

After Severin had gotten all the leaves out of his hair, he kept stroking him, running his fingers through Richie’s soft locks. It felt so nice. This was the best gym class ever. 

“You’re beaming pretty wide there, Rich,” Severin said after a few minutes. 

Richie hadn’t realized he was smiling – ear-to-ear, in fact. He tried to lessen it but couldn’t. 

“I can tell you really like this,” Severin continued, now scratching behind Richie’s ear. Richie’s stomach was doing flips the whole time, and his…his… He was _hard._ That part was _hard._

“You know, I got my first kiss when I was twelve,” Severin said. 

“Really?” Richie asked. He tried for a moment to place Severin’s age. Twenty? No, much older. Sixty? Maybe. Fifty? Possibly. Thirty? Forty? Sure. 

He really couldn’t tell with adults. Over twenty but under seventy, if he had to decide. 

“It was with the handsomest boy in school,” Severin said. 

_“Boy?”_ Richie asked, wide-eyed. He’d never heard of boys kissing boys before. Had never considered it. He liked the idea immediately. 

Severin smiled. “I’ve always had a sweet tooth for boys. Have you had your first kiss yet, Richie?” 

“No,” Richie said, feeling silly. 

“Aw, that’s okay. Nothing to be embarrassed over.” Severin tickled his cheek. “We all bloom at our own times. But I think twelve is a good age for a kiss, don’t you?” 

“For kissing a boy?” Richie asked, to clarify. Twelve sounded _great_ for a boy, but he couldn’t think of what would be a good age with a girl. 

“For kissing a boy,” Severin said. 

“Yeah,” Richie said dreamily. “Twelve’s good.” 

“Such a lucky thing that you’re twelve, then,” Severin said. “Otherwise you’d have to go back to gym class.” 

“How do you mean?” Richie asked. 

“Well,” Severin tilted his head, suddenly gazing so sharply at Richie that Richie forgot, again, to breathe, “I can be your first kiss, now, since you think the timing’s right.” He noticed the way Richie had stilled. “Are you going to do that every time? Remember to breathe, little one.” 

Richie took in a breath. He said, voice wavering, “You’re not a boy, though. You’re a _man.”_

Severin shrugged. “It’s all just kissing. It’d be even better to have your first with me. I can make it good for you.” 

Richie had no doubts about that. What he was less sure about was whether his lungs or heart would still be functioning afterwards. This whole scenario felt like a dream, like he had fallen asleep on the bench. In the woods it was easy to believe that Severin wasn’t human, but a beautiful faerie whose enchanted kiss would take Richie deep into the faerie realm. 

“It’s up to you,” Severin was saying. “You can stay until your class is over, and we can kiss. Or you can stay until your class is over, and we can not kiss. Or you could leave right now. I can walk you back or you can go on your own. So many possibilities.” 

Severin leaned back, arm behind his head. He closed his eyes, a relaxed smile on his lips. 

“I’m just going to rest here while you consider them,” he said. 

“What do I do once I’ve made up my mind?” Richie asked. 

“That depends,” Severin said. “If you want to leave, say so. If you want a kiss, then…” With his free hand, he gestured towards his lips, eyes still closed. “Take it. No need to be shy. I won’t peak, I promise.” 

Richie gawked at him; he was so casual about a decision that felt abruptly life-changing to Richie. 

He wasn’t deciding if he should stay or go. He wanted to kiss Severin, he wanted to kiss him _badly._ He was only deciding _how._ What were the mechanics of it? It was all nice and fine to say that the princess and the prince kissed in a book, but the dumb writers had never actually described what they were _doing._

Richie wanted to lean down, but was he supposed to put his arms on either side of Severin’s head? Lean against Severin’s chest? What if his lips were too wet? Or were they supposed to be wet? He wasn’t sure. 

Severin kept his eyes closed, humming softly. It was his patience that made Richie decide to act. 

He leaned forward and pecked Severin’s lips. He was leaning against Severin’s hard chest awkwardly, afraid of putting too much weight on it, and his lips missed a bit, getting Severin’s chin, mostly, instead. But there was some definite lip-to-lip contact there. It may have lasted a quarter of a second, but it still _happened,_ and by the time Richie bolted up, panting, he had already replayed it five times in his head. 

Severin opened his eyes. He was looking at Richie incredulously. 

Richie nearly panicked, wondering if he’d done it all wrong. But Severin’s eyes held such approval… Had he somehow done it especially right? Was he some kind of kissing master? 

“Little fawn,” Severin murmured, reaching and cupping Richie’s cheek. Richie stayed where he was, sensing what was going to happen seconds before it did. 

Severin leaned forward and their lips met. Richie remained very, very still, feeling Severin’s lips on his, again, again, again, pecking little kisses along his bottom lip. He made an involuntary noise from his throat, but Severin didn’t stop. In fact, the noise seemed to stir him on. He repositioned himself, the kisses never ceasing, building in momentum as he leaned over Richie, his presence overwhelming. Richie fell back into the leaves, Severin on top of him, kissing, Richie responding now with his boyish enthusiasm, clumsy but eager. He cried out when he felt Severin’s tongue on his lip, and shivered violently. 

Severin was so much bigger than him. Richie opened his eyes and saw nothing but Severin, Severin and the sky. Severin was all he could smell, the manly, gorgeous scent of him. All he could feel, taste. 

Severin kissed him with hunger, like a starved man feasting. He kissed Richie with force, as if afraid Richie would fade away even as he touched him. Every touch was a confirmation that Richie was there, solid and tangible. The kissing, to Richie, seemed private, like it was something Richie couldn’t understand; it was maybe even indecent of Richie to be watching, taking these peaks at Severin’s face, his closed eyes, his devoted, famished mouth. Even as he was being kissed he felt apart from it, like Severin was performing a religious rite and Richie was merely the sacrifice, had nothing really to do with it at all. 

But ooh, as long as he focused only on himself. Severin touched only his lips, his tongue, his teeth, the roof of his mouth, but he could feel it everywhere. The marrow of him buzzed with it, his toes sang. He shivered, spine delighted, curled and uncurled his fingers. 

Afterwards, Severin tucked his face against Richie’s neck. He breathed in deeply, eyes still closed. 

When he finally looked into Richie’s eyes, Richie felt as if something had irrevocably changed. Severin looked at Richie with disconcerting gratitude. Richie had given Severin a piece of himself he hadn’t been aware he had. Severin had that piece now, but they both had the knowledge that Richie had given it to him. For that, Severin was indebted. 

So whatever part of Richie he now had, it would be cherished. 

He reached out and touched Richie’s shoulder. A hesitant touch, calming after his fervent, ceaseless kisses. 

“Your class must be ending soon,” he said. “Would you like me to help you back?” 

Richie nodded, voiceless. He wanted Severin to touch him again, but he didn’t even put out his hand to help Richie up. They walked back in silence, Severin still pointing out thorns and poison ivy, still holding up branches, but not saying a word. 

When they got to the edge of the woods, Richie could see that the soccer game was ending. 

Finally Severin spoke. 

“I want to see you again,” he said. “But if you don’t want to, I understand, and I am sorry if I scared you.” 

He wasn’t teasing like before. 

“I wasn’t scared,” Richie said. He liked what Severin had said before, about him braving the walk. He didn’t want Severin to think he was a baby. 

“If you decide you’re scared later, that’s alright, too. I’ll leave you alone if that’s the case. Do you remember my last name?” 

“Moran?” Richie said. 

“Good. That’s it.” 

“So I can look you up in the phonebook and call you?” Richie asked. 

“Aw. You’re sweet, Richie. My name’s not in the phonebook. It’s so that, if you get scared, you can tell my name to your mummy. Tell her what I did. She’ll tell the police and they’ll find me and lock me away, so that you don’t have to be scared. Okay?” 

But Richie really wasn’t scared, and he didn’t want Severin to go away. He clenched his fist and said, “You said you wanted to see me again.” 

“I know.” Severin sighed. “I can’t help myself. I try to stop completely, but that only makes it worse. This is the best I can do. Try not to hurt anyone. If I see you, sometimes, it should be enough.” 

Richie didn’t know what he was talking about, but he said, eagerly, “I’ll tell you my address.” 

“No, don’t do that,” Severin said. 

“Why not?” Richie was getting sulky. 

“In case you change your mind. I don’t want you to feel unsafe, thinking about how I know where you live.” Richie must have looked crestfallen, which may have been why Severin said, “Listen, it was a good idea. How about this: I’ll give you my address. Come visit me when and if you’d like to see me again.” 

“After school,” Richie said immediately. 

Severin laughed. “Just make sure you come alone. Don’t have your mummy drop you off, okay?” 

“I won’t,” Richie promised, beaming. He heard a whistle beyond the trees. 

“That’s Anthony Simmons. Time for you to go,” Severin said. He took a pen from his pocket and reached into Richard’s, taking his copy of _Hamlet._ He opened the cover and scribbled something in its page. “See you later, Richie. Maybe.” 

“Definitely,” Richie said, taking the book and slipping it back into his pocket. He wanted to hug Severin Moran goodbye – didn’t want to leave him at all – but Severin was already turning around, walking back through the woods. 


End file.
